


Merlyn vs. Queen: Prank War

by Abbie, always_a_queen, ferggirl, redtoes



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Gen, Merlyn vs Queen, Prank War, olicity - Freeform, other characters to come, round robin of drabbles, well some hints of it at least
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-29
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-21 14:34:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/901413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abbie/pseuds/Abbie, https://archiveofourown.org/users/always_a_queen/pseuds/always_a_queen, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ferggirl/pseuds/ferggirl, https://archiveofourown.org/users/redtoes/pseuds/redtoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The true threat to Starling City doesn’t come from the List or the Undertaking, but the legendary prank war between Oliver Queen and Tommy Merlyn. Set early enough in season 1 that they still like each other. Will be four fic writers attempting to one-up the previous drabble/prank. All characters are fair game. We have no idea what will happen, but it’s going to be awesome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dancing queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A memory from the distant past and a score that needs to be evened. That's all it takes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is mine (ferggirl) - a bit of drabble fun that sparked an idea.

God this shirt is itchy.

Oliver shifts uncomfortably in his tiny desk, trying to maintain at least the appearance of paying attention to what his English teacher is writing on the board. This is his third high school in as many years, and his parents have threatened to withhold his allowance if he doesn’t scrape at least a passing GPA.

But who cares what some old poet said about anything? Maybe some girls, but he has other ways of making girls pay attention to him.

But this shirt, he doesn’t remember it being so completely unbearably itchy. He’s just bought it, straight off the shelf during a trip to Hilfiger with Tommy, and it had felt soft and comfortable when he’d tried it on.

The girl next to him, Wanda or Elaine or some weird old name, is giving him the stink-eye. Apparently she wants to hear whatever Mr. Robinson is saying about Tennyson’s Idylls of the King.

If he can just reach that spot, the really itchy one on his back, then he’ll be able to sit still. He contorts as well as he can, he’s always been pretty flexible, but any relief from scratching fades quickly. Every seam on the damn shirt feels like fire against his skin.

It’s almost like someone laced it with itching powder in retaliation for winning that bet last weekend about the blonde twins.

Dammit Tommy.

Oliver shoots his hand in the air, trying to get his teacher’s attention. But Robinson is in the zone, reading from the poem as he writes themes on the board, his back to the class.

“Mr. Robinson, sir?” he tries out loud. Oh GOD, it itches.

“Please do not interrupt me, Mr. Queen.” The asshole doesn’t even turn around.

He waits two minutes and then just stands up, prepared to go to the bathroom without permission.

“Was I unclear, Mr. Queen? SIT. DOWN.” Mr. Robinson has turned around now, and he does not appear forgiving. So maybe Oliver had submitted a paper on The Great Gatsby discussing ways that Jay Gatsby’s parties were inferior to his own, and maybe Robinson’s daughter had been arrested for underage drinking just after leaving one of his parties, but is that really a reason to keep him from a bathroom break?

Apparently. Oliver sits.

He doesn’t even try to hide the scratching, although most of the class is watching him now. He lasts another three lines of boring poetry before he pulls the shirt off and flings it to the front of the classroom.

Instant relief.

He relaxes back into his chair, grinning insolently at his incredulous teacher and acknowledging the appreciative giggles of his female classmates.

“Sorry, sir. I tried to tell you.”

“Get OUT. Out of my classroom and DO NOT COME BACK.”

Oliver leaves the shirt. He can buy another one. Time for high school number four.

* * *

Five years. It’s been five years since his life changed forever. Mere weeks since coming home. And although he wakes up every morning sure that today he’ll wake up, today he’ll be back on the island, Oliver drags himself to breakfast and smiles at his family and pretends.

It’s important to pretend.

So he attends parties, teases Thea, kisses his mother’s cheek and hires Tommy to work with him at the club he’s building to hide his true purpose from the world.

If anything, the prank war with Tommy is the most real piece of his old life he’s got left. When he left on that yacht, the score was tilted in his favor: Oliver, 22; Tommy 21.

Today, Tommy evened the count.

Locking him in his office with ABBA blaring from a sound system installed without Oliver’s permission is gentle compared to the elaborate setups from before the island. Itching powder, bribery, wet paint, grade hacking – nothing was off-limits then.

Surprising him with a trio of club promoters with no way to turn off the blaring of “Dancing Queen”? That is a little more Tommy’s style.

Oliver laughs through it and they leave only moderately concerned for his sanity. He catches the door on their way out, just in case Tommy is thinking it would be funny to leave him like this any longer.

He catches sight of his dark-haired best friend across the skeleton of the club. Tommy looks up and grins innocently. Oliver slices a look back at his office, and Tommy fishes in his pocket for a small remote control.

Seconds later, blissful silence.

“This is not over.” His voice sounds a little too threatening in the suddenly quiet construction site, but Tommy just smirks.

“Bring it, dancing Queen.”

Oliver kicks down the doorstop, just in case, and retreats to his office to plan. To plan his next foray as the vigilante, clearly. Not a prank.

Not yet. 


	2. Never gonna give you up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver takes the lead with a little outside help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the devious mind of redtoes!

22:22

Something must be done.

And done quickly.

If Oliver leaves this too long, Tommy may attempt to go for the lead, and Oliver is determined that when the score reads 23:22, it will be in his favor, not Tommy’s.

He’s been trying to come up with just the right prank to pull, but so far a plan has eluded him.

There’s been five years of history since he last did this; the world has moved on, technology has changed, and he’s just not sure how best to proceed.

So he waits and considers, and one night, reading through the archive of the New York Times in an attempt to fill in the island shaped gaps in his knowledge, he comes across something perfect.

But he can’t do it alone.

* * *

He tells himself it’s all part of his cover, that this one honest and true request will counter balance the obvious lies he’s laid on her, but really that’s just an excuse.

He wants to surprise Tommy, and all his past pranks have been physical or the result of dropping enough cash on the right people. Tommy has always been better with gadgets - hence Dancing Queen - and the idea of pulling one over on his life long best friend with technology is too delicious to be passed up.

“Rick-rolling,” she says, her eyebrows raised.

“Yes,” he agrees, playing the charming playboy to the hilt, “but not just rick-rolling. I want to do the ultimate rick-roll.”

“Didn’t Macy’s do that with their parade like five years ago?”

“Four years ago,” he corrects, “which is why I want to do it. He doesn’t think I know about it, so he won’t see it coming.”

She nods a little to herself and he grins. “So you’re in? You’ll help?”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Satisfaction of a job well done?”

She quirks an eyebrow at him and he chuckles.

“Alright,” he says, “what’s your price Ms Smoak?”

“Can you get me two tickets to the Book of Mormon at the Grand?” She asks, “A friend of mine’s a fan but they’re sold out.”

“Done.”

“Alright then,” she says, “here’s what I need.”

* * *

All in all, Oliver is proud of his planning. It starts small, with links he copy-pastes into emails sending Tommy to YouTube.

Tommy scoffs at him when he arrives at the club.

“Is that it?” Tommy says, incredulously. “Is the great Oliver Queen so weak and ineffectual he has to use a worn-out meme to prank me?”

Oliver shrugs.

“Seriously man,” Tommy says, squeezing his shoulder, “that was lame.”

“I’m out of practice,” Oliver says.

“That you are,” Tommy grins, “22 all.”

But it doesn’t stop.

On and on throughout the day Oliver sends Tommy links and Tommy clicks on them and shakes his head.

“This is weak, man.”

“Okay, well now you’re just embarrassing yourself.”

“Ollie, seriously, stop.”

The club isn’t close to done but they’re holding a fundraiser for CNRI anyway (Tommy’s idea) and everything is supposed to start within the hour.

So when Tommy starts threatening to remove points from the overall score if Oliver doesn’t “immediately stop with this lame rick-rolling thing” he activates the hidden code in the app he had Felicity write and everything Tommy attempts to do on his phone send a tinny rendition of Rick Astley’s 80s hit out over his phone’s speakers.

Everything.

Turning it on. Turning it off. Adjusting the volume.

Everything.

The guests are arriving and Tommy cannot make his phone be silent. Oliver steps in on host duties, sending Tommy a smug look as Laurel arrives.

Tommy finally manages to get the battery out of his phone and the music shuts down.

But when he steps up to the microphone to begin the evening’s festivities, it starts again.

“Never gonna give you up, Never gonna let you down,”

Tommy looks around him for the DJ booth, but then Oliver pulls a string to drop the curtain and Rick Astley is actually there, singing into a microphone, and Tommy just dissolves in laughter on the stage.

The crowd of dignitaries look confused, but they clap politely when the song is over, and Oliver steps on stage beside Tommy, who is almost crying with laughter.

“Too far,” his best friend says, “it was lame, and then it was annoying and then you took it all the way past lame and annoying to epic.” Tommy leans against a pillar and it’s up to Oliver to introduce Laurel and thank “our mystery musical guest” for his performance.

Laurel gives them both a knowing look as she steps up on stage and starts her speech, but it’s tinged with amusement, and Oliver knows that as long as CNRI make enough money tonight he’s safe (and they will - he’s got shell corporations and anonymous donors lined up to contribute if needs be).

Tommy is still leaning against the pillar for support and Oliver steps in beside him.

“23:22?”

“23:22,” Tommy agrees, “but how the hell did you get my phone to do that?”

“Trade secret,” Oliver says, thinking of a blonde easily bribed with theatre tickets. “If I told you I’d have to kill you.”

“You won’t see my revenge coming,” Tommy warns.

“I look forward to it,” Oliver says, and he does. This is the most fun he’s had in years.


	3. Casualty of war

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy miscalculates slightly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is by Abbie!

Tommy is practically bouncing on the edge of his toes in anticipation, and quickly running out of excuses to hover around the unfinished bar, but it has the best vantage point in the club for watching  the door to Oliver’s mysterious basement hideyhole while still being a safe distance free of the hallway.

It’s been weeks since Oliver subjected Tommy to the Rick Roll to end all Rick Rolls, and while Tommy has been intending to even the score, he got too busy with promoting and preparing for Verdant’s grand opening to retaliate. But Oliver has been riding high with his 23:22 advantage for too long, and while Tommy might have liked to respond with an even grander prank, he finds himself with too good an opportunity to pass up when the guys come to refit the sprinkler system in the renovated warehouse.

While the plan might be a little retro and small-scale, when the contractor hands Tommy an honest to God remote control capable of activating specific sectors of the sprinkler grid at the press of a button, he can no more resist the temptation than he can stop breathing. And as it turns out, the entire hallway in which the basement door resides is its own conveniently-partitioned grid.

He has only to wait until Oliver actually comes out of the damned basement, but his best friend has been holed up down there for the better part of the evening, and patience hasn’t exactly  _ever_  been Tommy’s strong suit.

Just as he is leaning on the bartop, squinting down the hallway and trying to devise a trick to lure Oliver upstairs—difficult without tipping Oliver off that the game is afoot, especially considering he still hasn’t given Tommy the basement access code for whatever reason—he hears the telltale beeping of the basement lock deactivating.

Grinning eagerly, Tommy watches the door fill with a backlit silhouette and, just as Oliver steps into the dim light of the hallway, presses the button that spells his best friend’s watery humiliation.

The hall light shifts from dim, steady yellow to flashing red, and with a hiss, a pressurized mist rains down from the ceiling. Tommy cackles—and then nearly swallows his tongue at the high-voiced, startled shriek that echoes from the club’s high ceilings. That is _not_  Oliver’s voice. And, as the flashing red lights suddenly reveal, that is _not_  Oliver standing in the hallway, but a much shorter, slimmer figure—Oliver’s blonde IT girl.

“Oh, shit,” Tommy swears, fumbling to hit the button that will shut the sprinklers down. The IT girl—Felicity, he remembers—has been in and out of the club and the basement for a few weeks now. Oliver has told him she is setting up the club’s internet access and helping build Verdant’s website, which doesn’t explain the  _amount_  of time she is spending around the club. Tommy has come to the conclusion that Oliver is circling the girl, and is now pretty sure Tommy has just killed any chance his friend had ever had of hitting that.

He hurries out from behind the counter and to the mouth of the hallway, the toes of his three-hundred dollar shoes splashing in the water coating the cement floor. “Felicity, oh my god—I’m so sorry—”

“ _You_  did this?” Tommy’s jaw clicks shut at her sharp, furious tone. She steps forward, and he can suddenly see her better. Her hair, pulled back in a ponytail at the base of her neck, is drenched and sticking to her neck and shoulders. Her skirt, knee-length and yellow, clings thickly to her thighs. And, dear god, her white button up shirt is sheer from the wet. Dragging his eyes back up to her livid face—where he notes with a wince her water-spotted glasses—he realizes she is clutching an electronic tablet to her chest. She holds it out, shaking it at him, showing him the dead black screen. “Do you have  _any idea_  how long it’s going to take me to rescue this thing? I was  _right in the middle_  of a line of code, and, and I  _hadn’t fucking saved!_ ”

Tommy stops when he realizes he’s taken a few steps back from her slow, deliberate advance. “I am really, really sorry, Felicity, I thought you were Oliver, this was only supposed to get  _him_ , I swear—”

She cuts across his words with an indignant, strangled screech. “This was part of your ridiculous  _prank war?!_  I could—I could  _kill_  you, both of you, if you weren’t both so damn much bigger than me! This was cute when I was rigging your phone for Oliver, but  _nobody screws with my computers_.”

“What the hell is going on here?” Oliver, of course, chooses _that_  precise moment to appear in the basement doorway, where he stops and looks bewilderedly down at the splashing of his feet. “I heard Felicity scream, and Felicity, why are you threatening to kill Tommy? What is this?”

Tommy waves wildly from Felicity to Oliver. “I—she—you _—she’s_  the one you got to rig that damned Rick Roll on my phone? You bastard!”

Oliver’s eyebrows shoot up and he opens his mouth, but Felicity, apparently, is not done breathing fire quite yet.

“ _Both_  of you bastards! Oh my  _god_ , are you two  _twelve_? This was funny on the sidelines, but I am  _not_  interested in being a casualty of your stupid little  _prank war!_ ” Felicity waves her arms around expressively as she speaks, standing and gesticulating back and forth between the two men. Unfortunately, this only serves to draw both their gazes to the soaked white shirt plastered to her body—and the white-and-pink-polka-dotted bra now clearly visible beneath it.

“Felicity,” Oliver starts, stepping towards her.

She is having none of it, stepping back and stabbing a finger towards him threateningly. “Oh, no you don’t, Oliver Queen, you are not going to turn that cheesy charm and little-boy grin on me and make me forgive you. You played that card to death months ago already, and I am now _immune_  to your patented brand of billionaire playboy bullshit.”

Oliver takes three quick strides and closes the distance between them, whipping off his suit jacket as he steps into her space. “ _Felicity_ , just take the jacket, take the goddamn jacket, right now. You can murder us later.”

Felicity stares up at him, her body language and expression a comical mix of suspicious and confused, and warily accepts the jacket from Oliver. When she just stands there with it in hand, squinting mistrustfully at him, he growls in frustration, snatches it back, and drapes it quickly around her shoulders.

Tommy clears his throat and glances at his feet. This could not possibly have gone more wrong—or more awkwardly.

Felicity glances down at the jacket, catches sight of her shirt, squeaks, and quickly fists the lapels closed over her chest and stomach. Oliver steps back immediately, and Tommy can’t decide which is funnier, the tomato-red shade of Felicity’s face or Oliver’s painfully stiff posture.

The little laugh he fails to muffle will be one of his greatest regrets, later.

Felicity’s attention—and boiling fury, if the acid in her glare is anything to go by—immediately refocuses on him, and one hand emerges from the suit jacket to point at him like a weapon. “You boys want a prank war?  _Fine_. It is  _on_  now. You two are going to wish you’d never involved me in this if it is the  _last_  thing I do.”

She storms past Tommy and towards the club’s employee entrance, the squishing of her ballet flats somewhat deflating the drama of her exit, and Oliver comes up and stands beside him. As the door’s slamming echoes through the converted warehouse, Tommy can contain himself no longer, and dissolves into only slightly nervous giggles. Slapping Oliver on the arm, he says, “Well. That was definitely not what I had in mind, but hey, certainly puts an interesting new spin on things, huh? Sorry if I made things more difficult for you with her, though.  _Not_  the intended result.”

Arms folding together, Oliver exhales lengthily from his nose and shakes his head. “Shut up, Tommy. You have no idea how screwed we are, but I guarantee you, we are going to find out.”

 


	4. Psychological Warfare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nobody hurts Felicity's computers and gets away with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is brought to you by always_a_queen.

A week passes, and nothing happens.

Nothing.

Oliver checks every shirt for itching powder. Tommy flinches ever time his cell phone lights up with a new call.

Nothing.

"Maybe she's cooled off," Tommy tells Oliver. (Over the phone, because he won't step foot into the foundry basement.) "Maybe she won't try to get back at us."

Oliver glances over at Felicity, sitting at her keyboard, typing away, apparently without a care in the world. He keeps his voice low. "I don't know. She was pretty upset. Just keep your eyes open."

Tommy groans.

The second week of paranoia drags by. During non-business hours, Tommy spends most of his time in his office, as far away from Felicity as he can get. Oliver checks every seat before he sits down; he half expects every electronic device Felicity hands him to send an electric shock through his body.

An enemy on The List makes some noise during the third week, and Oliver is so busy with that he lets his guard down more than once. Still, Felicity doesn't take the bait.

Oliver is even less careful during week four. Tommy is practically a nervous wreck.

By the time five weeks have passed since "sprinklergate", Oliver has almost forgotten about the whole thing. It's only hovering in the back of his mind because Tommy makes a causal comment about how "Felicity must have forgotten", and Oliver just nods and agrees with him. Maybe he's judged her wrong, and she _doesn't_ actually hold grudges.

Felicity strikes during week six.

* * *

 

Oliver is in the foundry training when he hears this tiny, almost inaudible _beep_.

"Did you hear that?" he asks Felicity. They've been working in companionable silence for the better part of the past two hours. Felicity's been updating software, while Oliver shoots some arrows and works out.

She pries one side of her Princess Leia headphones away from her ear and asks, "What did you say?"

Oliver shakes his head and goes back to his one-armed push-ups.

The next day, at the top of the salmon ladder, Oliver hears a _beep_. It seems louder this time.

"Did you hear that?" he asks.

But Felicity's headphones are glued to her ears and she doesn't seem to even hear him voice the question, so he guesses she hasn't heard anything.

He thinks he hears the tone again a little later, but he shrugs it off as Felicity's phone. Or computer. Or something.

The day after _that_ , Oliver is alone in the foundry when it happens again. Felicity's computers are shut down, and her phone is with her (he assumes) so it can't be either of those things.

 _Something_ is making the infernal noise. Maybe Oliver has something down here that's running out of batteries. He sets aside his bow and starts searching. First he thinks it must be coming from some of the medical equipment. He checks the defibrillator, the heart monitor, anything electronic.

Nothing.

Diggle shows up as Oliver's rifling through drawers one-by-one.

"Oliver," he says. "What are you doing?"

"Something is beeping," Oliver says, upending another drawer onto one of the tables and scattering the contents with his hand. Nothing electronic. He starts putting things away.

"I don't hear anything."

Oliver glares at him. "Trust me, Dig. Something is making a beeping noise. It's been driving me crazy all day."

Diggle frowns. "Did Felicity leave a search running again? Sometimes she sets it up to send out an alert."

"No. The whole system is shut off." Oliver winces. "And I might have taken a knife to her speakers just in case."

The look Diggle gives him tells Oliver just how crazy his partner thinks he's acting right now. "You stabbed her speakers?"

"I'll buy her new ones," Oliver growls. "Just help me find this thing."

Like a cruel trick of fate, the foundry is quiet for the rest of the night.

* * *

 

The next day it starts up again, and this time Oliver starts to panic. The beeping has gotten louder, and more urgent. With the way the foundry basement is built, everything echoes and it's nearly impossible to tell where the damned _beep_ is coming from. Oliver begins his search on one side of the foundry, but then it beeps again, and it sounds like it's coming from _behind him_.

Has someone placed surveillance equipment in the foundry? Is there an adversary monitoring their every move?

All attempts to find the source of the sound have been useless. Oliver tries everything he can possibly think of and then some. He tries measuring the amount of time between beeps, but there isn't any consistent pattern. He removes the batteries of every electronic device he can find and unplugs the rest.

Still, something is beeping. It's as if the foundry itself is making the noise.

He's about to call Felicity when it suddenly clicks that it could be a weapon that he's hearing, and the last thing he wants is Felicity in danger. No, he needs to find this thing and disarm it, and he needs to do it without putting her in any unnecessary peril.

He's so focused that he loses track of time. When Felicity comes bouncing down the foundry stairs - like she does every night after she gets off work - Oliver is searching for a bomb in the rafters.

"Oliver?" she asks in a confused voice, peering up at him. "I know that this is hardly the strangest thing I've found you doing, but...what are you _doing_ up there?"

"Felicity, listen to me carefully: I think there's a bomb in here. You need to leave and you need to leave now."

"You think there's a what in here?"

Carefully, Oliver climbs halfway down the ladder and then jumps the rest of the way. "A bomb. Or surveillance equipment, but we have to assume the worst for right now. I need you to _go_."

"Oliver, why do you think there's a bomb in here?" Felicity's voice is surprisingly even.

"Because I keep hearing this infernal _beep_ and I can't figure out what's making it. If it's not something I brought in than it's something someone else brought in. Until I know what that is, it's not safe here so will you please _get out_." He doesn't mean to yell the last two words, but it's Felicity and he's promised to protect her. " Get in your car and drive away from here as fast as you can. Don't come back until you hear from me."

He realizes that his voice sounds really harsh, and if he dies, those are hardly the last words he wants Felicity to remember him saying. "I just need you safe, okay?"

"You're _that_ worried about me?"

He grabs her shoulders, looks right into her eyes and says, "Yes."

She huffs, and steps away from him. To his shock, Felicity calmly walks over to the tennis ball pitching machine, squats down, and removes something from underneath. She walks back to him and holds out her hand. There's a tiny round device sitting in her palm.

Almost as if on cue, it beeps.

Oliver stares at it, then at her. First he feels anger, then relief. "You did this?"

"Your little prank war caused Merlyn to drench my system. Nobody hurts my computers, Queen."

Oliver swallows. "Just how long were you going to let this go on?"

She presses a hand to her chest. "Until the pain in my soul was soothed. I didn't realize you'd think it was a bomb. Or that you'd be so concerned for my safety."

She sounds almost touched, and Oliver feels a tiny bit mollified. Still...

"Why didn't you go after Tommy?

At that, Felicity grins. "When did I say that I didn't?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beeping contraption Felicity uses was inspired by the ThinkGeek Annoy-A-Tron, which their website assures me is indeed very, very annoying.


	5. Revenge of teh kitteh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All hands on deck as Felicity completes her retaliation. (Ferggirl)

John Diggle isn’t sure, initially, that he should be participating.

The contest between Oliver and Tommy Merlyn is almost endearingly juvenile, and certainly not something he wants to interrupt. It’s good for Oliver, to be thinking productively about something other than the list. No matter what his young employer thinks, soldiers need rest, both mental and physical.

But then Merlyn miscalculates. Oliver comes back downstairs that night red-faced and without his suit jacket.

“Are you… dripping?”

“Oh, right. Dammit, Tommy,” Oliver looks distracted. John gets up and grabs a towel from the lockers, lobbing it over.

“Ah, so it’s not raining?” John smirks. “Did Mr. Merlyn just even the score?”

Oliver looks up, apparently surprised that John’s aware of the contest.

“Oliver, I spend most hours of the day with you. I’d be a lousy fake bodyguard if I didn’t know.”

The younger man shrugs. And then smiles. “You know, I don’t think this counts; he really only got Felicity.”

“Felicity? Is she ok?”

He’s amused when Oliver looks downright abashed. “She’s… she’s fine. Really. It was just sprinklers.”

“Wasn’t she wearing…”

“White? Yeah.”

They both wince, and John accepts that as the explanation for Oliver’s missing jacket.

“But the real problem is that she had her tablet out.”

“Oh. You’re both dead meat.”

* * *

 

Felicity doesn’t approach him for a few weeks, but when she does, her plan is so elegant and simple that he just can’t say no. It’s two pronged, obviously. One for each of the troublemakers.

Oliver’s punishment is electronic and his main role is to act oblivious. He’s quite good at that.

Her plan for Tommy requires more of his active participation. He is, after all, the bigger offender.

It’s fun to watch the younger Mr. Merlyn’s confusion the first day he opens his car door to find kitty litter all over his car seat. Felicity’s at work, but John sends her a video from his position across the street. He does this for a week, making sure to change his surveillance vehicle and location. Tommy is reduced to checking his car roof for phantom holes and carrying a mini vacuum.

Oliver’s just starting to get twitchy when John begins phase 2 in Tommy’s punishment. Felicity’s created a virus to translate anything in English on Merlyn’s laptop to “lolcat” speak, complete with appropriate screensavers and backgrounds. He takes a moment to browse the website she’s referencing and agrees that it will make Tommy’s electronic life basically illegible.

She hands off the usb drive with the code on her way out of Queen Consolidated for the evening.

“This is cold, Felicity,” he says with a smile. “You have a fix for later?”

“As if I need one,” she grins. “But yeah, it’ll be easy to undo. So you know the plan?”

“Yes ma’am. All in place. Carly says hi, by the way.”

She waves on the way to her car, and John heads to CNRI. He needs a word with the misses Lance and Queen.

It doesn’t take much to get their cooperation. Thea is thrilled to be part of the epic prank war she’s heard about for years and agrees to her part with no hesitation. Laurel is less giddy, and gives him a stern look when she connects the kitty litter to what he’s requesting, but relents when the rest of the plan is outlined.

“Don’t make me regret this, Mr. Diggle,” she warns as she makes the call to lure Tommy away from the club for dinner.

Tommy leaves his laptop locked in his office while he’s at dinner, but that’s a minor inconvenience for John. He’s got all the codes.

He heads downstairs, mission complete, to find Oliver holding the beeping device in his hand. Felicity looks equal parts ashamed and gleeful. A raised eyebrow gets him a rueful shake of Oliver’s head.

“You don’t want to get involved, man.”

Felicity turns to him and smirks. He nods to let her know that phase 2 is complete and continues on to his work, poker face firmly in place. 

* * *

 

Felicity takes an early lunch the next day. John grins at her when she walks in, ignoring Oliver’s confused double-take.

“Anything yet?”

“No, but he just…”

John’s sentence is cut off by a pounding on the basement door. Oliver’s eyebrows lower threateningly, and he picks up a crossbow.

“Oliver, I don’t think,” Felicity starts. Oliver shushes her, and she rolls her eyes.

He’s halfway up the stairs when his phone starts ringing.

“Tommy?” 

“Wait, what?”

"Stop banging on the door and talk in complete sentences."

John can see Felicity fighting the giggles. He shoots her a warning look, but it’s no use.

“Why are you even here at 11:45?” Oliver is frozen on the stairs, but at least he’s lowered the crossbow. “Your computer’s doing _what?_ ”

“I’ll… be right up.” He ends the call and turns back to the two occupants of the lair. “Is there something you need to tell me, Felicity? Why is Tommy’s computer speaking cat?”

“I think the better question, Oliver, is whether he’s read his cat-speak emails.” John’s impressed at her cool answer, considering that 30 seconds earlier she had been biting her fist to keep from laughing. “Because he’s got an appointment about to arrive.”

Oliver runs down the stairs and replaces the crossbow with a sigh. “Tommy’s about to pay, isn’t he?”

She hands Oliver her tablet to read.

DEAR SIR, THANK U 4 UR CLUBS KIND SPONSORSHIP OV TEH STARLIN CITY SPCA. AS U REQUESTD, WE WILL SEND VOLUNTUR OVAR WIF UR ADOPTD MASCOT 4 FOTO OPPORTUNITY AT NOON.

“And you, a little bit,” she says. “But mostly him.”

In the end, having "longtime community service volunteer" Thea Queen present Tommy with a little white kitten in front of ten photographers to cement Verdant’s intention to be a top donor to the SPCA is really a stroke of genius. Merlyn clearly has a soft spot for the younger Queen and isn't going to say no to her, despite his total incredulity. Oliver shakes his head and smiles for the cameras. Felicity is careful to stand in Tommy’s sightline. This becomes important when a reporter asks for the kitten’s name and is told “Sprinkler.” John can see the moment that Merlyn’s eyes widen and the last week of cat-torture falls into place, and there she is, smiling sweetly.

To Tommy’s credit he grins back. When the journalists are gone, he genuinely laughs.

“Are we even now, Ms. Smoak? No more kitty litter?”

“Stay away from my computers and you have nothing to fear from me,” she promises.

Thea demands to know the score, and Tommy reluctantly admits to being one down to Oliver. “Don’t worry, Speedy, I’ll fix that soon.”

And although Sprinkler was meant to be a photo-op, not an actual adoption, John learns from Carly that Tommy files the paperwork to keep her.

“He said his girlfriend has always wanted a cat,” she says with a smile.

 


	6. Risky business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By Redtoes

Tommy takes his time with planning. His last attempt backfired spectacularly and he’s still not entirely sure that Oliver’s IT girl has actually forgiven him for soaking her blouse and short-circuiting her tablet.

So he plans. Carefully.

Inspiration is slow to arrive. Then one day he’s lying on Laurel’s couch, playing with Sprinkler - the kitten really is incredibly cute even if he hates the name - when Laurel comes in complaining about buttons coming off of her suit jacket.

And then inspiration strikes. 

For all that Oliver has lived in rags and runs around the city in a leather get-up better suited to an fetish club than crime fighting, he can be incredibly vain about his clothes.

And Tommy knows just how to take advantage of that.

* * *

The ball isn't for a charity with which he’s particularly affiliated, but he saw how hard it was for him to turn down a charitable endeavour in aid of his own pranking, and he's always considered himself a quick learner.

He’s quite proud of the fact that this is a prank he’s carrying out entirely without allies - Oliver might have his team, but that just means more people with whom he has to share the credit. Tommy wants this to be entirely his victory.

So he invites Oliver and McKenna to join him at the ball, tells Laurel to put on her dancing shoes and sneaks into the Queen mansion to steal every dinner jacket Oliver owns.

Formal wear isn't something even Oliver Queen wears every day so Tommy figures he has a few days before the suits are missed.

He pays the tailor three times to going rate for a rush job and returns Oliver's four formal suits to the wardrobe subtly altered so that three of them are unwearable.

* * *

Oliver offers to arrange for a limo to collect them and Tommy happily agrees. 

It's strange thinking of McKenna Hall as a cop. He still remembers the girl who would dance all night in the latest hotspot in a dress so short and tight it looked like it had been sprayed on.

She looked good then but he has to admit she looks better now. He might have liked Lycra when he was younger, but the more mature Tommy appreciates the elegance of a ball gown much more.

Oliver shifts on the seat when Tommy joins them the back of the limo.

“Something wrong?” Tommy asks in his most innocent tone.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Laurel eye him suspiciously.

“It’s been a while since I wore this one,” Oliver admits, “it’s not sitting quite right.” He pulls at the collar.

“Why didn’t you wear another one?” Tommy asks, “I know you own more than one tux.”

“This had the best fit,” Oliver says. “I thought I tried them on since... Well the other three are all too small.”

“Time to go shopping buddy,” Tommy says and pours champagne, keeping one eye on the time and wondering just how long Oliver’s been wearing the suit and when his prank will kick in.

The limo pulls up at the venue and Oliver’s bodyguard Diggle opens the door, letting in the light from a thousand flashbulbs.

Tommy gets out first, waves at the cameras, then reaches a hand back to help Laurel out.

She emerges, glamorous as ever, in a midnight blue gown, her hair held in place with one of the antique diamond combs Tommy’s mother used to wear. It makes him happy to see it in her hair. Even more so because he knows she used to turn down Oliver’s offers of jewellery back when they were dating.

McKenna steps out next, accepting a helping hand from Diggle. Oliver is right behind her, straightening his jacket as he emerges into the light.

Tommy watches as Oliver pulls on the material one final time and can't help his grin as he realises this has all been timed perfectly.

As Oliver steps forward, away from the limo, the seams of his suit seem to peel apart like the skin of a banana.

His sleeves separate from the arm holes of his jacket, falling down like loose socks and then folding backwards to flutter to the ground. The jacket itself splits at the shoulders, the material peeling off Oliver’s torso to the front and back as if by magic.

Oliver stares, completely shocked as the material that was once his suit jacket floats down to the ground, leaving him in his shirt sleeves.

He’d read online years ago about this particular type of thread that dissolves away after a certain amount of exposure to body heat. He’d filed the knowledge away, wishing that he’d had the chance to use it in his prank war with Oliver, but at the time he’d been presumed dead so the thought was bitter-sweet at best.

Now however it’s freaking hilarious.

Tommy can't help it, he starts to giggle.

His laughter catches Laurel’s attention and she turns just in time to see Oliver’s suit pants crumple and flutter away, leaving him dressed in only his shirt, bow tie, underwear, socks and shoes.

Oliver looks down at himself, then up at Tommy, who is almost bent double with laughter.

Cameras are flashing and Oliver gets a very particular look on his face.

“Digg,” he says, turning to his bodyguard, “have you got your sunglasses?”

Diggle, who Tommy is impressed to see has managed to keep a straight face throughout, pulls a pair of dark shades out of his inside pocket. 

Oliver steps out of his dress shoes, pulls off the bow tie, puts on the shades and strolls forward confidently.

“Gotta make an entrance,” he calls to the waiting paparazzi. “I thought this was a costume party! Risky business!”

Confident as only a billionaire can be he strolls down the red carpet and into the ball.

Laurel looks at Tommy and quirks an eyebrow.

“Your doing I take it?”

“23:23,” Tommy says proudly. “Even if he did front it out, the look on his face was priceless. I’ll take that as a win.”

“Are there pants waiting for him inside?” McKenna asks.

“Nope.”

“Great,” McKenna says faintly.

“Don’t worry,” Tommy says, offering her an arm. “You can stick with us. You don't need to be publicly associated with him.”

As they enter into the hall the three of them see Oliver slide across the tiles in his socks and Tommy grins. 

“Revenge is sweet Merlyn,” Oliver calls, then strikes a pose for the official event photographer and disappears into a side room, Diggle following swiftly after.

Oliver reappears halfway through dinner in an obviously off-the-rack suit that Oliver being the bastard he is makes look almost as good as his normal tailoring.

“I have to say I'm impressed,” McKenna says, “most guys would have hidden in the limo.”

“Couldn't let Tommy have the satisfaction,” Oliver says grinning and Tommy resolves to hide his favorite suits under lock and key for the foreseeable future.

“23:23,” he responds.

“Not for long,” Oliver says, “not for long.”


End file.
